This Bitter Chore
by Down.Where.I.Am
Summary: The Companions have changed and it's too much for Aela to bear. Feeling more at ease accepting a new family than her descent into madness, the Huntress' final farewell to the Circle is tainted red and witnessed by a black hand. Rated T as I don't feel any violence is any worse than that in-game but do tell me if i'm being naughty. Please R&R x
1. Chapter 1

The flesh of his cheek tore with a slick click through the impact of the red-haired woman's braced fist, the metal cutting her own knuckles in the process; the two Companions, shield-siblings, blood kin were enthralled so by the fight, the moment, just another power struggle, that they forgot themselves.

Vilkas swore and spat as his steel boots slipped in the dust of the cave floor, kicking grit and billowing dust. He swiftly dropped to his hip and rolled as Aela swung at him with her short sword. The huntress was not nearly as skilled with iron as she was the bow; she missed the heaving, dusky toned Nord, his black-lined, glacial eyes suddenly lit ablaze with fury. He lashed out a thick, muscular leg and tripped her as her sword struck the uneven ground, her off-hand, weighed down by her shield becoming overbalanced, caused her to crumple, her arm folding at the elbow under the weight of her lithe yet strong body. Vilkas was a large man but fierce and battle-honed, like any great predator much quicker that one might expect; within a second he was astride the woman as she scrambled, her face in the dirt, the slit side of her form fitting leathers staring up towards his groin, her waist caught between his powerful thighs. Despite how she struggled and kicked he managed to keep her pinned down, and forcing his weight forward to compress her writhing shoulders under his chest, the battle was done.

They had fought for over twenty minutes. At range Aela had, of course had the advantage; she was full of fire, quick on her feet, with eyes and aim akin to that of the hawk, but they were in an ancient burial chamber; this, like the many they had explored over the years was full of small natural cells and snickelways, dead ends and various traps and obstacles. Vilkas knew how to use this to his advantage; the man was as much an insightful tactician as he was close-combat warrior. Biding his time, he had allowed her to back away from him, allow her to grow over-confident, proud of her skill as an archer, opportunity for shot after painful shot until out of nowhere, she had no further to go. The two wolves had reached the small, moss-covered cavern at the end of this ironic game of cat and mouse and he finally managed to break her to submit.

After a stretch of time in their grapple that seemed almost as long as their fight itself, Aela started to calm. Vilkas loosened the pressure on her upper body somewhat and she instantly attempted to spin, lashing out with all the force that she could muster. She gave a furious roar and, being the only part of her body that she could freely move, cracked him across his strong jaw with the crown of her head, causing as much pain to herself as her competitor, yet providing her with at least a final, satisfying physical comment, and a bellowing scream of shock from the man that echoed beautifully all the way to the cavern's high peak as he caught the tip of his tongue with his teeth,

"Dammit Aela!" He cursed, "by Ysmir, woman, it was you who got us into this, now get down and stay down or help me find a way out!"

The warrior woman, still pinned, suddenly transformed her wrathful expression into a sadistic grin by observing Vilkas dribble blood from his pouting lips as he tried to chastise her.

"Oh come," she scoffed with condescension, "you expect me to take you seriously?" Her grin widened, "if not for your clumsy manoeuvring in heavy steel, I should be inclined to mistake you for your horker-brained brother," her amber eyes caught his icy ones with one smouldering glimmer of challenge, "you look as pathetic as a child with a bloodied lip."

Before she was done laughing, she was unconscious as his armoured elbow struck her forehead with a dull thud.

An hour or more later and she was awoken by the violent wind, sweeping with it threat of blizzard, outside in the wilds of Skyrim's harsh Morning Star. Vilkas was carrying her in his strong arms, his broadsword strapped to his shoulders and her equipment hanging at his waist; walking with the single-minded determination of making it home to Jorrvaskr with as few well-armed distractions as possible. He knew she had regained consciousness but he fought his own mind not to break his gait or his glance and continued on. Aela's head hurt; her arm throbbed and she was fairly sure she had a wound on her leg that would shortly become infected if nothing were done. That one had not been due to the friendly fire she had engaged in with her old ally; it had happened when she had clumsily released the wrong switch in a Nordic puzzle and the pair and fallen through a floor grate into a dark, slimy abyss below ground level. Her refusal to accept responsibility had been what had lead to their confrontation. She had thrown the first punch. Vilkas had hit a nerve about her state of mind. She was in pain, a wounded animal with both a damaged, run down body, tired and restless, and a shattered mind. She let herself relax in her strong friends arms, her pride too obliterated to struggle any more – not even for the words that she buried deeper the more she longed to express them.

She so longed to join Skjör.

Aela awoke once more to find herself in her chamber. She didn't remember her arrival back at Jorrvaskr but was grateful for the warmth of the furs that lined her bed. The pain in her thigh had subsided to a dull drone; she couldn't summon the energy to look but assumed that one of her colleagues must have treated her wounds as she'd slept. She guessed she'd slept at least, as opposed to simply loosing consciousness again; it was difficult to tell with the beast inside her but the beating she had taken from Vilkas was certainly not the worst she had ever experienced.

She knew she was alone. She'd been alone for over a year now and she was falling further and further into feeling it. She hated the fact that she was afraid, hated it with rage as hot as the fiery breath of Akatosh; yes, she had confessed to herself that she was afraid. She had tied herself in circles not knowing if she was angry or distraught; then afraid of being alone; then afraid of others knowing she was afraid; then angry again - angry with herself for feeling; for thinking about the feelings; for caring what the others thought. She knew that she missed Skjör. The pain of needing him struck at a part of her gut from whence before she had only ever felt burning rage; adrenaline, the need to fight, to strike out and kill. However she felt it was now a part that had itself been struck as if by a blade straight from the forge, then frozen, scarred, dead. She wondered if that part of her was her soul – the part of her, once wild, free, passionate, wondered if it was now dead, perhaps taken by the Silver Hand when they took Skjör? Took Skjör. They had killed Skjör he hadn't been taken anywhere. She had carried his once strong, then limp, lifeless body back to Jorrvaskr from Gallows Rock. Seen his weathered, handsome face empty and ashen, watched his funeral pyre burn. So why did the old man persist in stalking her thoughts? Why did she see his face behind her eyes, open or closed? Why hadn't revenge been enough? Perhaps she was dead, then. Perhaps this was the hunting ground of Hircine, as Kodlak had warned, merely not as she had expected. Perhaps it was her soul that was hunted here. Perhaps the truth was that it was herself, not Skjör that she longed for? She wasn't sure if that thought made her feel better or worse; she felt it braced her weakness somewhat but as a result she had to accept that she would never recover herself.

She turned in her bed and buried her face in her furs with what felt like the greatest effort she had expressed in her life for such a minimal movement. She opened her mouth to let rip a scream fit to shatter bone and release her pain but the sound never came. She buried her face further into the soft goat pelt, matting it as it became slick with her furious tears. She would cry it out, let it hurt, then she would drink and her senses would be anaesthetised, only if for the night.

Liset Cheyrouneaud was an odd sight to see, sitting as she was with Vilkas on the steps, near the fire-pit in the mead hall Jorrvaskr. Her slight stature, willowy and standing barely taller than a Bosmer, long mousy hair with it's golden highlights, large, rich hazel eyes and pretty heart-shaped face would not have seen her out of place at a regal house in High Rock. Although born in Skyrim, she was a Breton, a 'Manmer', a fact that would have been impossible for her to deny. She was young, due to see her twenty-third summer in the coming year. She hailed from The Reach but despised The Forsworn. She practiced the schools of restoration and illusion; she was certainly no warrior. Vilkas adored her, and much to his brother Farkas' shock and confusion had wed her the previous year's Rain's Hand. Vilkas had been called with Leonidus Viria, the Dragon Born, and now Harbinger, as shield-brother to retrieve her from a ruin that had turned out to be a Vampire lair. The two bulky men in their heavy armour could not sneak so had struggled but managed to fight through to reach her, only to find their health too sapped for the journey back to her home, then in Karthwasten. Her healing and magickal stealth had saved her supposed saviours that day. If she had have had a lockpick or two herself, she would have been home three days sooner and she and her now husband would never have met. She was not in the Circle; she was not a Companion at all, yet the wolf blood had pumped in her veins since the night Vilkas first bedded her, alighting her instincts, her passions, energies and love for life; love for him. She had found herself pregnant with his child during Second Seed; the baby was due in a matter of weeks. Liset and Vilkas could not have been more different from an outside perspective, the large, dark-haired Nord warrior, weapon-master, often-cold, calloused man grown from abused child and the pretty girl from the mining town, but they shared philosophical souls and deep hearts, her purity and his cynicism forging their relationship to near symbiosis. Also, she and the child being the first family the man had ever truly known aside from his brother, as far as he was concerned the sun shone for her. Aela despised her.

"Ay," Vilkas hissed under his breath as Liset tended gently to the deep cut, Aela's handiwork, still open on his cheek with her magicka. He had stripped down to the leathers he wore under his armour, showing exactly how bruised and scarred his muscular body was, but had instructed his wife to tend first to Aela, lest she wake and find herself in pain or develop an infection she may have been too worn down to fend off. Liset had not long finished that task and moved onto him and he was not in the best of moods, petulantly squirming at her touch, mildly regretting his prior act of selflessness towards his unstable colleague.

Farkas was sat on the floor in front of the tables at the opposite side of the fire, drunk and highly amused by his brothers beating at the hands of the huntress. He roared with laughter, "Only four thousand Sepitims, brother and I'll teach you to remember your helmet next time you pick a fight with Aela!" He continued to laugh.

"Hush your flapping mouth Farkas," growled Vilkas scornfully through his thick accent, "No conflict was intended, at least not by me. The woman is in pain, surely even you see it?"

"Ahh, I don't get it," the slightly bulkier, longer-haired twin objected as he stood with a swagger, "Aela's always teased me, maybe it's just your turn!" He grinned widely, chuckling, and made his way across the room to acquire more mead.

Vilkas tensed to stand, to follow his brother and object to his nonchalance when he felt Liset's slender hands grip his bicep and usher him back to his seat on the steps, "Leave it love," she interjected, her sweet tone calming the animal in him, "don't expect him to deal with too much at once." She smiled, she did not mean it negatively, and she liked her brother-in-law. Unlike her husband whose strength and wisdom she had so come to adore, Farkas was likeable in an almost child-like, strangely innocent way. He was simple, straightforward, had his morals, and was unpretentious. However he was having difficulty thinking of his brother as a husband and father; until it had become obvious in fact, he'd appeared to block out Liset's pregnancy in his mind altogether. _It's just the way he has always dealt with things he's struggled to understand_, Vilkas had told her. It explained a lot.

She slid her hands down her husband's strong arm, and interlocked her fingers with his. He settled down on the steps with her, embracing her with his free arm and said nothing, simply looked her in the eyes and smiled. He had a beautiful smile when it wasn't laced with sarcasm; he didn't use it often but when he did she blessed the divines for their creation that was the man she loved. They stayed that way for some time.


	2. Chapter 2

Aela's face was still flushed from angry tears and too much drink when she made the climb up what seemed like the ten thousand steps to High Hrothgar to reach the main hall of Jorrvaskr from the living quarters. She stank of stale mead and Colovian brandy, her leathers were soaked with alcohol; her green, usually striped war paint was smeared, her striking face for once visible, but too tainted by her mood to be beautiful. She staggered, and gripped the banister; sneered at the whelps that dared to catch her glance in their mild confusion. She was not herself, she knew that well, her mind was swimming in Aetherius, but anyone who dared to question her would surely feel her wrath. Her stride faltered as she reached the top of the staircase. She re-assessed her bearings, took a breath, straightened up and marched over to the tables in the centre of the room. She stopped in front of Farkas, forced herself not to meet his eyes, steadied herself on the table and poured herself a tankard of ale.

"Who do you think you're passing judgement on, oh great cleansed one?" She spat contemptuously at Farkas, he who had cast aside his wolf following the death of Kodlak, their former Harbinger. She continued her effort to focus only on her drink.

"Whoa sister," He objected with a confused scowl, "I thought we'd been over this!"

"Leave her be, brother" Vilkas' low voice cut in from his seat across the room. He did not make any effort to move, he was preoccupied, cradling Liset who had fallen asleep in his arms as he absent-mindedly ran his fingers through her hair.

"No!" Aela snapped, whipping round her body as if possessed, and breaking the devout vigil she was holding over her ale, glaring furiously at the man, her eyes suddenly lit with hate, "You! You dare to defend me?" She roared, throwing her tankard to the floor with a force that caused it to bounce off the hardwood boards, "I pity you! You with your little _pet_! Your little 'woman'! What has become of you? You've become more akin to kitten than wolf!" she turned her attention to Farkas, "Both of you! I remember the days when I was proud to call you kin! When you were warriors!"

"What did you just say to me?" Growled Farkas angrily, "If you're questioning my skill, let's go! Right now!" He had already reached for his sword.

Vilkas remained silent, smouldering, seething that the commotion had caused his wife to stir. Their child could feasibly be born tomorrow and live; she needed her rest. He had been very patient with Aela, despite their earlier brawl; she was an old friend and a great warrior but still, he felt his anger begin to swell. His expression was dark.

Aela ignored Vilkas' eradiating fury and focussed her attention on his brother. She went to draw her sword, immediately devastated, realising that she wasn't carrying it. She never forgot to carry her weapon. After screaming at the brothers, she was once more enraged, destroyed by the thought that she had also lost such pride in herself. As Farkas' sword swung above her head, she ducked, slipped in the ale she'd spilt and stumbled. Farkas scoffed, and then bellowed hysterical laughter until the humiliated huntress growled and kicked him hard in the knee. He collapsed and hit the floor with a roar and a thud that shook the floorboards, his heavy armour denting the ancient wood that had hardened almost to the strength of iron. Aela scrambled and unceremoniously dragged herself to her feet before he could catch her. On impulse she ran. Before she was aware of her bearings she had fled Jorrvaskr, lost her cheated competitor, past the irritated lovers and charged out of the imposing double doors that lead into the frosty air of Whiterun's black Morning Star's night.

She continued to run. She longed to join her beast-kin in the wilds; to run through the tundra with the wolves, maybe hunt, wanted to kill, didn't care. Could already feel the warm, metallic-tasting blood, perhaps of a stag, seeping between her beasts sharpened teeth; feel her claws, her jaws tearing at flesh, hear the snapping and clicking of tendons and muscles as the sound resonated up her face and into her sensitive ears. She couldn't, she was too drunk, sober only enough to be aware of how drunk she truly was. Before he was cleansed, Farkas could always handle being drunk in his wolf's skin, but he was the only one. Her hatred and resentment of the loss of her pack overwhelmed her again. Farkas had been wasted; Vilkas, with whom she had always fought but still respected – whom she'd though so wise, so balanced, had been taken by a _woman_. The woman may well have been wolf but was not her kin. Leonidus – the accursed 'Harbinger'. Stupid Imperial, all his priorities wrong. She had been his sire; she had gifted him and where was he? On another job in Dawnstar, he claimed. He was always in Dawnstar these days; he should have been at Jorrvaskr, beating the others into submission for their weakness. Kodlak, the old man. He would not have been better in the end, she mused, for he was also weak, refused to accept his blessing. Now dead. Dead. Skjör was dead as well. He had been her twin soul; they had run together, hunted, killed together; bedded together. Yes, he had died a noble death but he was still dead. She wanted him; she saw his face in her minds-eye, heard his voice, felt him between her legs, smelt his fur, and tensed with the thought of his claws running up her back. She missed him to a point that was driving her to madness. Even if her minds former ramblings on the state of her own mortality had simply been the beginnings of psychosis, as she feared, she may as well have been with him for what little reason she could perceive that she had left to live. She hoped that her drinking would catch the attention of Sanguine before Sheogorath came calling. One or the other would take her before Hircine delivered her back to her love that they may hunt together once more in His name. What would Hircine want with such a failure? She was disorientated. She wasn't even sure which district she had run to. The pale stone steps and multi-story wood framed buildings appeared to tower over her; she could almost see them drag as Nirn span on its axis. The cobble-stoned ground span and warped. She had reached the bottom of a staircase and collapsed. A guard, arms folded, gave her a cautionary stare. She vomited in the open gutter.

Several hours had passed and Aela could vaguely pick out the muffled voice of a quiet Imperial talking to a Nord. Posting bail. She squinted and tried to assess her surroundings. She had awoken in Dragonsreach Dungeon. She wondered if she had remembered correctly punching a guard, resisting arrest. She had a vague inkling that this had been the case, although she could not be sure. Her head hurt. She rubbed her brow and a crust of dried blood crumbled and stuck to her eyelashes. Yes, then. She supposed that she probably had.

"Aela," A low-toned, velvety voice stirred her. She knew the voice well; he was her beast's son. The closest that she and Skjör would ever have to a progeny. It was Leonidus Viria. The thought of Vilkas and Liset flashed momentarily in her mind and renewed her irritation.

"You took your sweet time, Leon," she spat, almost perturbed that the Harbinger had actually shown up. It would have better appeased her bitterness to be left in the dungeon for the night.

"I understand that you chose the foot of the steps to the Wind District to…" he paused, "purge you grievances."

Aela glared at him. He was wearing his Blades armour. He'd been fighting Dragons again, she assumed. The dark metal bands and gilding looked unequivocally beautiful as a backdrop for his dark, mostly loose but hero-braided hair, contrasting his pale skin and jade green eyes. He had grown a beard again, stubble really but he had not yet reached his mid-twenties. He was dirty, bloody. His hands were mildly charred. She had already scorned him about using magic, particularly when he'd attempted to enhance the enchantments of Wuuthrad. Arrogant boy. Deceptive as well, he'd hidden his inclination towards elements of the craft rather too well as an initiate. She wondered what else he was hiding, though grudgingly, could not deny his proficiency as a warrior. He must have only just arrived back in town from Dawnstar. Somehow though, he still managed to look like a doll and speak as smoothly as one of the Imperial Council. _He was smug_. She had known him for eighteen months or more and that still annoyed her about him.

"I understand that you're taking me back to Jorrvaskr to answer for my behaviour," she mocked, cringing as she sat up on the small cell's basic little bed. She wondered when she'd pulled her stomach muscles.

The guard walked up beside Leonidus, opened the gate and walked away. The two Companions stared at each other, each awaiting commentary on the situation from the other. Neither spoke a word but the Harbinger's flat stare said enough to make Aela bite her tongue and move to follow him back to the mead hall. She was embarrassed but at least she was sober, or at least more so than she had been. She was thankful for the early hour, the brothers, the woman and the whelps would mostly be in bed; she could deal with feigning sincere apologies when the sun rose.

Leonidus approached the doors to Jorrvaskr. He turned the handle and pushed against their stiff, heavy hinges, standing aside for Aela to whisk past him towards the living quarters. The woman's rage and altering mood in general greatly intrigued the Harbinger. He had known many people with stories of events in their lives that seemed similar to what she was going through now. Few had ended 'well' in the traditional opinion. He walked straight through the hall and out of the double doors on the other side, into the courtyard. He sat down on one of wooden chairs, carefully undoing the belts on his heavy cuirass, trying not to let it clank to the ground and wake the others. Oddly, the quiet, secretive man had an affinity for the place. Of course, it felt good to be around his kin; rarely in his travels had he come across other wolves who had not run feral; the Circle appeared to have at least a level of control over their wild-sides. However that was not the reason that he felt, relatively, at ease here. It had been a long time since he'd lived as a warrior and Jorrvaskr gave him a sense of nostalgia and a chance to drop his guard, even if only a little. He had genuinely been a warrior once; before the call of the Grey Beards, before Delphine had sent him through the Rat Way in Riften to find Esbern, where he had fallen in with a way of life that required somewhat that one must always be aware of his back. Things had already escalated in that direction for him by the time he travelled with the Companions to Ysgramor's tomb, and en route had come across a strange little jester with a broken wagon and a dead mother. The farmer whose land it had been had warned him that it could have been anything in the crate that the little man carried. It had deeply offended him that landowner had assumed he had not realised this. The fact was that he had not cared; let the skooma and the arms flow free, people needed them. He was aware at that moment how warped his moral code had become. As far as he was concerned, he did still have morals; they were simply not the same as the set that he'd started out with. He had lost nothing but his naivety. How surprised he was, that when he eventually put that logic to the test and performed his first revenge killing for a little boy in Windhelm, he met up with the jester again, as well as his new family. His cuirass lay on the floor as he looked up at the stars. Despite all that, yes, he liked it here. The cold of Morning Star did not bother him. He was in Whiterun. It had been at least six weeks since he'd left Dawnstar for more than a contract and Dawnstar was cold. Nonetheless he watched the sliver of the frost that coated everything around him, plants, rocks, even his own warm breath, as it twinkled and fogged. It struck him how it mimicked the sky. So clear, so dark, with a few frosty clouds, the stars perfect, sharp and silvery, as though he could see the points of several million tiny daggers in the distance. He chuckled curtly under his breath. Daggers. His shield-brothers would undoubtedly scoff at that one. He smiled as he casually rubbed at a new scar he'd acquired – a nice set of fingernail marks on his right clavicle. That mark had been a bitch. Never sneak up on a cheating Dunmer whilst she's still in the act if you value your looks. Oh but her face; it had been worth it.

He stayed in the courtyard for a little while before he noticed Vilkas approach. He did not move the man was no threat to him.

"Waterworks have you up in the night, Vilkas?" He teased with a smirk, "Must be getting old." He quickly scorned himself for forgetting that his old friend's sense of humour was lacking, that he had clearly been away too long if he had managed to forget which twin he was talking to.

Vilkas sneered and wondered over to the slightly younger man with a mild swagger, "Liset can't sleep, she said I have started to snore" he muttered, leaning on the veranda and sighing, "If I have it was her shoddy repair work to a recent broken nose that was to blame…but Kodlak always did assure me that a fight was often best avoided…So I just came out here."

Leonidus fought to keep his face straight. He succeeded but with great effort. Vilkas had made his statement with a level of seriousness that almost seemed feigned, yet it still seemed inappropriate to question whether the fight in question was in reference to the supposed broken nose he could have avoided or his hormonal wife. Leonidus let the feeling wash over his head, "So, she's got to be what? Eight months now? More? She's got pretty big while I've been away, friend. Are you excited yet?"

Vilkas smiled. Again, a genuine, serene smile. Leonidus was slightly shocked; he had only asked out of politeness and expected more to be mocked for absconding to Dawnstar for so long again, than given such a rare glimpse of an emotion other than rage from the big man. He had only ever had dealings with Babette, the un-child and Aventus, never with an _actual, normal _child. He supposed that this was an example of what they did to people.

"She is thirty six weeks, so thinks the priestess" Vilkas stated, the smile not leaving his face, "Excited does not accurately cover it, brother." He was admittedly happy to have been asked; the other Companions had been somewhat avoiding the issue. None were as actively angry with him as Aela with her constant complaints of his weakness, carelessness and selfishness, but he was an intelligent man and well aware that the thought of a child in Jorrvaskr was not to everybody's taste. He had in fact thought about moving them out of his quarters and into Whiterun proper, but the frosty reception they had received, particularly from the huntress had ignited his stubborn streak; he was still in the Circle, he had not always agreed with Skjör or the other elders as a whelp but had always adhered to what was asked of him. He had idolised Kodlak Whitemane, and was happy for his brother when he had followed by his example and cast aside his lycanthropy, even though he had not been ready to do so himself. It was the way things were done and tradition was what kept the Companions alive as they were, not descending into yet another band of ruffians and sell-swords. Besides which, Jorrvaskr was where he had grown up himself.

"I am glad you've found happiness." Offered Leonidus. He did not particularly care either way for Liset himself, she was too insipid of character for his liking, but had never offended him. He did not feel it was his business to interfere.

"Aye," Vilkas nodded agreement and said no more.


	3. Chapter 3

_3_

**Note:** Thanks again to Y-Ko for observantly pointing out that this story has been up here before. I was a petulant child and removed it, then re-posted it assuming that no one would have read it before anyway, thus not have noticed. My bad. This is the last chapter that I previously posted and is still really only part of a build-up. Admittedly I probably could have incorporated it and the last couple into flashbacks or something and got straight into the main plot from chapter one but I'm far too methodical for that sort of thing. :p

I've also been a bit slower updating than I'd intended, sorry. I'll try not to do that too often but I've been busy; couldn't be helped..!

Thanks for reviews :)

The sun had not properly risen over Whiterun Hold. The scrub-grass and shrubs were still covered in a fine mist of frozen, crystalline winter morning dew. The night was clear, as it had been earlier, although there were fewer stars now and it had taken on hues of pink and blue, the twin moons in plain sight. The flowers, even the winter perennials were dead to the world, all-sleeping either for the season or simply for the night. The two wolves frolicked, trampled all that crossed their path. The frantic thump of eight massive, clawed feet and their excited howling could undoubtedly be heard in the city, the way that sound carried on the otherwise silent morning wind, but no guard cared to check on the commotion. Tales of howling; tales of werewolves. This was what Aela had been longing for. She growled playfully. She swore to the Gods, why must the boy keep leaving her? She leapt on his back, playfully grappling him, biting his neck. He rolled her; gripped her with his massive forearms and wildly kicked her with his hind legs, then bolted forward and continued to run. She yelped with glee and gave chase; pounced on him once more, pinned him, howled. It had been so long since she had howled with a Companion, she could barely place the last time she had felt so alive. Yes, she joined wolf packs and took down wild animals. It was so different. So different.

She was growing so bored of her human form, it was becoming almost unbearable; in her current state she forgot her troubles, her many losses, her suicidal ideation. She was free. It had been too long for Leonidus as well. Of course, the brotherhood had no issue with his lycanthropy but to them it was simply a tool of his trade, as it had been for Arnbjorn, who was too savage for his liking. Aela understood. It was the call of the blood. It was her blood he had taken, after all. It was a gnawing passion. They ran. They played, they hunted; they took down a bear. Aela jumped onto the creature's shoulders before it had time to react; she wrestled it, riding it as if it were a bareback horse, her arms reaching fully around its neck, her claws gouging at its sternum. It writhed and roared; lashed out at her with its teeth and claws but could not physically move its body in a way to be rid of her. Leonidus charged it head on and swiped at its jaw, dislocating its mandible with such force that the flesh tore and was left hanging only by sinew and fur. The animal attacked on, it's chest ripped open to expose muscle and bone, its tongue flapping as it tried to call out but could not resonate. Aela had severely torn at the flesh of its right shoulder, could see the tendons, watch the muscles constrict as it tried to bolt her off its back. Leonidus slashed its face again, this time taking out its eye and liberating the surrounding skull of all tissue. They were elated by blood lust. When at last the animal appeared to subside Aela loosened her clawed grip on its sternum to rise as Leonidus savagely bit into its jugular, shredding chunks of flesh, taking fur, skin, venous tissue and part of its trachea in his massive jaw as he pulled away. Aela leapt forward from the back of the animal's corpse, landed on her hind legs, then pounced on Leonidus, nipped at his chin and darted on, daring him to get up and chase her once more.

The two Companions eventually collapsed in unison amongst the frozen wildflowers of the tundra. Panting and content, gazing at the sunrise, they reformed as human. Leonidus, his naked skin sensitive again to the grass beneath him, propped up his torso with his arm and smiled at his shield sister. Aela, making no attempt to hide her body simply lay beside him; she made eye contact but managed no more than that. Her cynicism and sadness had washed over her like a flash flood the moment she was back in her skin and realised the situational nature of her short-lived happiness; back to normal everything would be. She turned her head away from Leonidus.

"Aela?" He gently tried to gain her attention, softly resting his free arm on her chest as she continued to look away, "You know I'm here if you need to talk." He assured. He was the harbinger, after all, despite the fact that his other duties often kept him away, but he also cared deeply for her; she fascinated him, so passionate, strong, always to the point, but also such a tendency to be secretive; they were similar in that way. He didn't share her need to keep up a façade, hide herself behind what more often than not came across as coldness, but then she was a very capable woman, he imagined she had spent most of her life being underestimated.

Aela lay in silence for a little while, internally fighting her sadness lest it manifest; undoubtedly it would simply transfer to anger, it always did, but that she could cope with. Her face flushed a little but she won the battle to keep her tears at bay. She looked back to the sky; the stars were almost all gone now. She shrugged Leonidus' arm away; she thought it presumptuous of him to assume that he had earned enough respect to touch her, but she said nothing. She respected him enough to withhold a tongue-lashing, at least.

The two Companions silently, found their clothes, dressed themselves and retuned to Jorrvaskr.

The dawn was breaking over Whiterun as Aela and Leonidus jogged up the gradual gradient of the Plains District towards the imposing stone steps leading to The Wind District and Jorrvaskr. Leonidus kept astonishing pace with the huntress despite his heavy armour, his conditioning and training with the Blades, mostly, had him barely notice he wore more than leathers. So different from when he had run from Helgen, that first day across the Jerall Mountains from Cyrodiil; on the contrary, that day the Imperial leathers he had found in the Keep had felt like Iron bearing down on his tired, burnt and blistered body. He had simply been adventuring, as he had done since his teens, and ventured into an unfortunately occupied area of the mountain range from where he hailed in Cheydinhal; he missed the architecture, the Nibenean flair for taking onboard Dunmer aesthetic appeal and practicality beat the damp, mossy stone Sanctuary draft any day; and the climate itself occasionally, particularly on the coldest nights in The Pale, but little else. It was his birthplace but his home and family were in Skyrim. Walking through Whiterun, however, reaching the top of the steps and seeing the Eldergleam outside the temple of Kynareth, the running water in the streets, never failed to remind him of his past life and make him smile. As they were about to pass by the temple to return to the hall they both noticed Liset sitting under the great tree. She gave them a smile and a small wave; Aela nodded acknowledgment but continued to Jorrvaskr without breaking her stride. She did not want the woman to mistakenly think that there was a chance of friendship between them; Aela felt nothing but dire contempt for Liset's comfort in everything so infuriatingly average. So un-liberated. She'd been _given_ the beast blood, not even had to earn it, as well as the chance to live with the Companions in Jorrvaskr, and all she had done with the opportunity was ensnare Vilkas, one of _The Circle_, of all the men in the place, and taken down his prospects with her, simply by being careless in bed. Aela's anger started to grow again as she failed to understand how anyone could be offended by her lack of enthusiasm over such a non-achievement.

Leonidus held back to talk to Liset. The young woman smiled at him despite Aela's obvious avoidance. It was not difficult for anyone to tell that Aela's disapproval had disappointed her; she knew that they had little in common but when they had first met, she had hoped that the female warrior to whom her husband had always referred with such admiration, even when he had visited her in early on in their relationship back in Karthwasten, would at least speak to her.

"You shouldn't take it personally Lissy," Leonidus offered, as sympathetically as he could feign to be. He may have had a secretive, colder side but nobody could fault him when it came to manners, "Your chap was every bit as intolerant with me as she is with you when we first met, you know? Perhaps she'll come around to liking you when you're back in a condition to punch her in the face." Leonidus smirked a little at the image, as well as the memory of the initial perception he had received of a gruff, intolerant, unshaven attack dog when he had met Vilkas so long ago.

Liset laughed and blushed at the prospect of her husband's harsh tongue taking on Leonidus' Cyrodiilic wit. She knew that both of them could, and did get vicious at times but she had never seen them verbally spar with each other. She imagined that the power shift the two had gone through as Leonidus had ascended through the ranks much have been some experience. She didn't muse over the thought for too long, however; she was mostly just appreciative that someone from Jorrvaskr would speak to her. "Thank you, Leon," she sighed through her smile.

"What has you up so late then?" The Harbinger politely enquired.

"I'm up early!" She giggled, the memory of being able to stay up all night almost lost to her, "I couldn't sleep again," her tone dipped, "I…came to pray to Kynareth for the baby's stars…" As soon as the words had left her mouth she was fairly certain that she had lost Leonidus' interest and was pleasantly surprised even by the small talk he offered in response.

"Good luck. The Ritual can be an enviable sign under the right alignment. Although there's always The Serpent. I'm a Shadow myself though." He bowed his head and shot a sideways grin at no one in particular. Of course Liset would not know why his sign so suited him but speaking so openly about it amused him nonetheless.

"Vilkas is definitely hoping for an aspect that will help in battle one day," Liset admitted nervously, "I'm…" she faltered, "Concerned he will be…overenthusiastic…when it comes to training the child early, especially if it's a boy…" She paused briefly, suddenly breaking her thought with a genuine whole-hearted laugh, "I'm sorry Leon, you aren't really interested, are you?"

Leonidus was quite surprised by her intuition, it was rare that anyone noticed when he wasn't really paying attention; he was quite practiced at pretending. "Sorry Lissy, it isn't that, not really." He chuckled through a smirk, "Don't get me wrong, I am happy for the two of you" _The whole idea amuses me greatly _he thought to himself, "My mind's just elsewhere, I'm afraid." He added with apparent conviction; he wasn't being entirely deceptive. He was somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of Aela.

Liset's laughter eventually trailed off, "It's ok, really" She assured, "It's just, you asked me what I was doing. I can't really do much else right now. If anyone spoke to me more than they do, then they'd know I don't assume they all want to hear about…" She looked down at herself, "…well, this." She started to giggle again, "It gives them mental pictures of my husband that they could do without, I imagine." Leonidus snorted inelegantly at the unexpected observation his colleague's wife had made. She was correct, it was a mental picture that he _certainly _did not need. She grinned like a Khajiit and her pretty eyes sparkled with glee at her minor triumph, "Go on Leon" She gestured to Jorrvaskr offering him an escape, "It was nice to see you." She added with a quiet laugh.

Aela did not wait for Leonidus to finish talking before she had returned to her chamber. She appreciated the fact that he would run with her in the wilds more than she imagined he could comprehend, however it didn't quell her gnawing frustration at how non-committal he was to aiding her plight to rejuvenate the former glory of The Circle. She had immediately thrown herself into the chore of polishing her bow, lest she dwell too severely on how out of sorts she was and slip into drink again. She was due a contract later in the day and was still managing some level of success with battling her commanding inner voice when it came to work. She furiously channelled her energy into oiling and conditioning the gilded Elven weapon. The thought of having seen Liset after her run was still playing on her mind. The woman was the constant epitome, actual embodiment of everything, _everyone_ she had lost. How everything had changed. How reactionary she had become and how pathetic that realisation made her feel. She bit her inner lip and furrowed her brow as she continued to scrub obsessively at all of the scratches and nicks to her bow with a leather rag and fine abrasive powder-oil mixture as she had always done. At least that was a constant. She worked at it harder, trying desperately to distract herself. It was almost as if the damn woman's face had been etched into the metal, the way that she played on her mind. Aela scoffed at the thought, slightly pleased by the idea of cleaning away all of the problems. Take her work; take it, project all of the ghosts onto it and scrub them away. She thought about Skjör again. How much better things had been before he had died. She longed to be able to think about him, remember the good times, without the desperate sadness welling up in her, but it still came. Every time she thought about him, about the old days, it came and it tore at her heart. She swallowed the pain and focussed it back into her anger, back into her polishing. She knew that she had to sleep away the middle of the morning before her contract, but also that sleep would not come to her yet, even if she tried to reach it; she was far too awake, her thoughts were still racing and disorganised, she would dwell on them in her bed or in front of her bow, and at least the latter accomplished something.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** I'm done with build-up now. This chapter has been difficult to write. Very difficult to write. I feel bad for putting it off for so long, not just for the lovely people who have actually bothered to read this far but because it's bugged me about my own staying power, but hopefully I'm over that now :p I basically spent far too long trying to keep Aela dead in character before I kinda twigged that it was impossible to do 100% given that it's a depiction of the pinnacle of her madness and despair. She is erratic and confused, I've done the best job I could of keeping at least part of her alive in the chaos and not just giving into writing her Cicero-crazy. Just feel safe in the knowledge that she'll be back shortly, playing for a different team.

* * *

It was the second of Sun's Dawn; the atmosphere was strange, heavy, dark and foreboding. The air was still crisp and thin, even indoors, so much so that even the mead in the bottle Aela languidly carried by it's neck was still kept cold despite being held; droplets of condensation collected on its body and trickled down the brown glass, glistening amber in the torchlight, though she did not notice. Aela felt in no doubt that what she was about to do was the only way forward; she had spent almost three weeks making desperate, futile attempts to come up with a way to drive the Companions back to their former glory whether they were aware and willing for it to happen or not. She had taken many contracts in an effort to get the others to follow by example but was met only with praise on re-focussing energy into her work. She had approached the brothers with a façade of forgiveness, spinning tales of previous battles, hoping to re-ignite their thirst for the field but only managed to bring about reminiscence and nostalgia. She had attempted to sew seeds of doubt about the competence of her contemporaries in Leonidus, hoping he may offer them guidance but was only given his best cold smile as feedback. She had considered outright conflict, an insight of mutiny amongst the lower-ranks to overthrow the deadwood in the circle but she was a hunter, not a politician. As she passed Vilkas and Liset's open chamber door that night, it was as though the moon had finally risen, sharp, silvery, with a clarity that she hadn't experienced in what felt like an era.

A baby boy who had been named Aleksi the night before, lay wrapped in thick, blue and green blankets inside a pale, woven basket in the corner of the room. His mother lay in bed, barely conscious, sweat beading on her brow, her long brown hair, now slick and greasy sticking to her skin as a high fever boiled her blood. She had developed an infection and was fighting furiously but all could see it was a struggle. Vilkas sat at her side, hunched and forlorn; he wore only lightweight leathers, was tired and unwashed, his face stained with black war-paint, faded to grey where it hadn't settled in clumps, that had run down his face with the tears that he had strived yet failed to hold at bay. The sight of the once strong, noble warrior in such a state disgusted Aela. The man had lost muscle density, over the last few weeks, now too lost the furious spirit and tacticians wit that she had previously so admired, all because of the damned woman lying in the bed under his bleeding heart. Aela stood in the doorway unnoticed, possibly ignored, she was not sure, but either way not acknowledged as she glanced over to the little boy born to a man who had lost his way. Her rage returned, mixed with pity that he would not have the warrior's upbringing that he had a right to as the son of a Companion, an upbringing that he would be robbed of by his own mother. It was then that she knew; She was a hunter; She ran with a pack and for the greater good of that pack, in order for it to heal itself as a unit, the weakest member would have to be expelled whilst an opening was in sight.

She retuned to her chamber.

* * *

Aela sat on her knees on the floor of her dimly lit room; tending to her bow as she waited. She had begun to feel a sense of unreal euphoria as the muscles in her strong arms flexed to draw her bow, she felt almost electrical tension between her thumb and forefinger as she clung on to it's little barbs of power when she fought. The feeling of release when she let go of each arrow; let them fly away at lightening speed to decide the fate of her enemies. Wild deer, trolls, Draugr; they had all become the same to her, simply living targets representing all of her pain, her fears and frustrations. She had made the connection that she could kill her pain this way; physically kill it, smell its blood, flay its skin, stamp on its remains if she chose to do so. She was beginning to reach a state of mania on her hunts, which, when paired with the despair and restlessness of her nights was leaving her constantly exhausted and she was tired of being tired. She was no longer concerned about her sanity, at least anyone else's perception of it, or 'right' or 'wrong' by society's rule She missed the comfort of her self-assured old-self but was falling further and further away and could not see a path back. She was an animal, protecting her pack and she could not spend any more time crying.

She stared at her bow; her old friend. Her bow had seen all that she had seen, fought with her when things were good, fought for her when drawn in anger and sat in her lap, put texture in her hands when the rest of her felt torn apart and numb. She placed it to one side and stood, a strange lucidity overwhelming her. She knew what she had to do; the only thing that would kill the static; the only thing that would make things right. At least put things back on the right track. The voice in the back of her mind was still screaming but for once, for all her furious polishing, it was so distant, almost quiet. She placed her bow on the floor, delicately ran her fingers over the intricate metal work and stood. She felt as though the winds were carrying her as she drifted to her dresser. She stooped, placed her hands tentatively on the grainy wooden surface and carefully opened the top drawer. A dark green glass bottle shimmered as it's slightly irregular corner caught the torch light; partially buried under furs and an old linen tunic it was not particularly easy to spot but it shone to her like a beacon. She took the bottle with her right hand and placed her left on top of it, cradling it like a child would hold mouse. She sat on her bed absently caressing the bottle with calloused fingers and there she waited and she listened. She was hunting.

It seemed like a lifetime of waiting before she heard the footfalls of someone heavy, weary pass by her chamber. It seemed by the trudging gait that it would unlikely be anyone but her quarry's guardian; Vilkas was huge, even in his misery he needed to eat. As soon as the footsteps passed, she made her move. Silently she approached and opened her door, then began to move down the shadowy corridor. Although the room where Liset anguished was merely a few doors away, it may as well have been a mile.

Aela stayed close to the wall, hoping that the edges of the floorboards would be less likely to stir and squeak beneath her weight. She was cautious though not nervous; she had stalked prey since her childhood and this docile female had fewer wits about her than a young rabbit. Nonetheless if one of the others should become aware of her presence she feared having to make her excuses and wait for another chance that promised no definite arrival. She pushed on, arriving at the door of her companion's chamber unseen. Giving her surroundings one final check, she softly pressed her hand against the door to dampen any sound and then turned the handle. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, sharpening her senses as she crept towards the bed where Liset had slipped into what appeared to be a troubled sleep. She crouched close to the ground, her breath silent and shallow; once she arrived at the head of the bed her heart was beating so fast that she could feel the beating of her own pulse in the sides of her neck, nonetheless now was not the time to break her focus, even the most tiny of errors would result in her discovery; The _best_ case scenario if the woman were to awaken would be that she would slit her throat and flee Jorrvaskr before a sound was made to draw the others to her, so that they might catch her in the private room carrying the bottle of poison. She did not want to flee but in the event that it was necessary she could at least go with the knowledge that the Companions would now have a chance to heal themselves without her. The bottle weighed heavy in a pouch she carried from her belt; she carefully ran her fingers under its base, supporting its weight as she undid the knot at the top with her free hand and withdrew it.

Aela stared at what she had in her hands for what must have only been seconds but her thoughts raced uncontrollably, and seemed to fall into slow motion at the same time; just a lagging jumble of noise and static darting by before she could interpret a one. She wanted desperately to hold her breath as she attempted to remove the bottles cork as quietly as possible, though knew that doing so would make her breathing too heavy and give her away when she let go to her body's need for air. With one final surge of adrenaline she gripped the bottle tightly in her right hand and loomed in over the still sleeping Breton woman. Aela delicately touched Liset's hair, partly testing to see how soundly she slept, partly hoping that it would subconsciously lull her into being used to her touch. Liset did not stir as Aela tentatively began to stroke her long brown hair, followed by her cheek, then finally, confident that she was used to her touch rested her hand on her forehead. She brought up her other hand, still holding the bottle; she tipped it slightly, staring as the green, viscous liquid oozed around the neck of the bottle; her gaze did not falter as she tilted it the other way slightly, then back, coating the inside of the rim in the sticky liquid.

* * *

Leonidus felt strange. He couldn't quite interpret the atmosphere in Jorrvaskr; it felt almost as if he were home in Dawnstar. As he sat at one of the long, wooden tables in the Great Hall, nursing a steel tankard of mead that he had poured more out of habit than anything it struck him; it was _too_ still, too heavy, too _quiet_. Of course there was tension among the ranks with many too concerned with provoking Vilkas into rage or worse, tears, to say anything, but that wasn't it. Leonidus was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, he had been around murder for long enough that he could almost _smell _it, still he sat and stared into his drink.

_Surely not in Jorrvaskr…_

He attempted to shake the feeling; perhaps it was just the fact that silence was a fairly unknown commodity in the place, perhaps he was misinterpreting the strange for the sinister. Perhaps he had just forgotten how to deal with awkward silences. He longed to Hear Nazir, hear some dry, sarcastic comment about how his cushy Imperial upbringing and over-active imagination had turned him into a frightened little girl, how Babette should study him for a more convincing con, or how no one had truly sensed death until they found themselves alone and unarmed with the winds of the Alik'r Desert licking the back of their neck. He smirked at the thought that even Cicero would be a welcome distraction at present; dancing around or chattering like a fool he was, just _something_ to take his mind away from the tension. The thought that most frightened him was that as the Listener there was a chance that this was not simply paranoia. What if the Night Mother was calling to him? What if her voice was so feint that he could only hear it as a whisper? What if it was Sithis Himself, calling from the Void to find another one of his Dark Siblings? Here. In Jorrvaskr, his _old _Sanctuary, one of the last places in Tamriel where old honour and justice still meant something to it's people. He served the Black Hand because the darkness was in him, he revelled in it, it soothed his soul like wrapping a scared rabbit in a blanket to calm it down, but to see it's grasp reaching into this pocket of light upset him in the way that even a hardened cynic can feel disheartened by the corruption of an innocent child.

Leonidus' usually gleaming, jade eyes were dull and flat as he stared ahead into middle distance. His handsome, pale face now vacant and distracted against its long black backdrop of hair, would have made him look like a pallid white stone carving from an Ayleid ruin back in Cyrodiil, were it not for the significant lack of embellishment on the old hide armour he'd chosen to wear whilst not on contract.

He barely reacted to the heavy, trudging footsteps approaching from the stairway to his left. The footfalls were irregular, weary but quick, not one set, he ascertained, two, definitely two well built men. Too light for Vignar or Brill and too sober for Torvar. Farkas and Vilkas, then, undoubtedly. As the footfalls drew near and stopped he broke his stare-into-nowhere and turned his head to look at the weary twins. Farkas nodded and forced a half-hearted smile in recognition; he was blatantly feeling his brother's pain. Vilkas slumped down in a chair along the table; his back hunched and arms still hanging at his sides, apparently ignoring the world around him, focussing only on the internal skirmish he was fighting with his own emotions. Farkas joined him on the next seat along, took a metal jug and poured two tankards of mead, placing one in front of his brother who disregarded it completely, and drinking quickly from the other before placing it on the table in front of him and joining in with the three-in-a-row staring-at-nothing contest between Vilkas and Leonidus, who had also resumed position.

There was barely a sound in the Great Hall apart from the crackling and popping of the wood in the fire pit in its centre.

The three men sat in a row in their near-meditative trance until Vilkas eventually moved, lowering his head until his brow nearly touched the wood of the tabletop, and smashing his fist down with a thud that shook the crockery. Mead splashed from the tankard in front of him and landed in his tangled, neglected hair, causing it to stick to his face, although he did not notice.

"The damned Gods have cursed me!" He roared, his face contorting in agony, "Cursed this prodigal son of Hircine! Where is His loyal Huntress? Surely she has time to come here to mock me as well!" His forehead met the table, hands crossed on the back of his head, his biceps and abdominal muscles twitched in rhythmic spasms as the tears he had been fighting so hard finally overwhelmed him.

Farkas' glance darted to Leonidus, silently pleading for help, his eyes angst-ridden and childlike without his brother to give him guidance. Leonidus stared back, melancholy and seemingly still not quite there. It was so disconcerting to see either of his friends reduced to terrified animals this way, full of rage, fear and confusion, possibly a glimpse into their traumatic early life before the Companions. However they had suddenly lost their place in the list of his priorities. Aela was strikingly absent; _by Sithis why had he not made the connection before Vilkas' outburst?_ He tried to hide his frantic impulse to run to the living quarters as he stood, still abruptly, to leave the table.

"I'm sorry, I have just realised I have business to deal with," He bluffed as he made his way past the terrified Farkas, patting him on the shoulder and pausing, "Try to get him to eat something, will you? There's nothing productive about him making himself ill as well." He added, staring into the terrified mans, ice blue eyes before swiftly heading towards the stairwell to the living quarters.

* * *

The atmosphere in the room had grown dreamlike. Aela's senses were screaming at her; she wondered if this was what it felt like to slip on ice coating the side of a mountain, out of control, unaware of the outcome; unaware of what would be waiting in the valleys below even if the fall did not kill her. Murder was not in the repertoire of a warriors actions but she had come so far, was so close to the bottom that to stop now would only bring with it new dilemma, a new set of regrets and a different sense of failure. At least this way the Circle could be salvaged. She repeated that thought in her minds voice like a mantra. With a deep breath she tilted the bottle; the viscosity of the liquid she had already applied to its neck slowed its flow and it dripped slowly. Liset's face contracted as the liquid reached her open mouth but she was not awoken. She licked her lips as another drop fell, then another until six drops flowed into her system. The poison was potent and her quarry already weakened, Aela was confident that she had succeeded until she heard the hurried footsteps outside the door. In the blink of an eye she placed the bottle on the bedside table and drew her sword, initially only identifying a dark-haired man burst through the door. Leonidus froze; staring wide-eyed at the scene before him, then lunged forward and caught Aelas' sword-arm as she desperately raised it to an attack stance. She briefly struggled before he pulled her close, grabbing her sword as she lost grip and stuffing it in his belt before it could fall and make a sound.

"_Shhh!_" He hissed abruptly, loosening his grip but his glare still intense.

Aela staggered backwards, visibly stunned, confused. Seconds passed, the Harbinger's eyes were wild but he had not called for help. She dropped to her knees as he walked past her, never averting his gaze, picked up the green bottle and briefly inspected it before walking back to the doorway and beckoning to her.

"I am sorry I did not arrive sooner," he uttered flatly, unemotionally, "Come with me, Vilkas will find her now, he will grieve for letting her die alone, it is him you must fear for." Aela sat still in shock as Leonidus turned to the doorway, then looked back over his shoulder, "Come with me _now_" He repeated, snapping under his breath urgently, "I will console Vilkas in the morning as Harbinger, then I will persuade him that he wants to be left alone with his son," He glared with such ferocity that she staggered to her feet before he added, "and you will then accompany me to Dawnstar, _Sister_."

Leonidus grasped the still-stunned Huntress by the forearm, ushering her through the door towards her chamber. Terror struck Aela, her face drained of colour, and no words could find her throat as realisation sunk in. She went over and over the last words that the Harbinger had spat in her ear in hushed tones before bundling her through her door, locking it from the outside.

"_Hail Sithis."_

He had said_ "Hail Sithis."_


End file.
